


Carnival

by sidebyside_archivist



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-01
Updated: 2007-09-01
Packaged: 2020-06-29 20:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19837927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidebyside_archivist/pseuds/sidebyside_archivist
Summary: Jim gets his fortune read--and lives to regret it.





	Carnival

**Author's Note:**

> Note from LadyKardasi and Sahviere, the archivists: this story was originally archived at [Side by Side](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Side_by_Side_\(Star_Trek:_TOS_zine\)) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. We tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Side by Side’s collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sidebyside/profile).

“C’mon, Jim. It’ll be fun.”

Jim Kirk looked up at his chief surgeon, the one who was hovering over his command chair with that big goofy grin plastered on his face. Jim had seen Bones smile like that before—lots of times—and it usually meant that the doctor planned to take part in some kind of just-this-side-of illegal escapade, one that involved lots of alcohol and the company of Scotty.

“I hate carnivals,” Jim answered as patiently as possible.

“Look, you need to get away from this ship for a while. How often are we going to be near Tineria IV just when they’re hosting the Omniplanetary Carnival? It’ll probably never happen again. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. And besides, you only think you hate carnivals. You’ve just never been lucky enough to go to one with Scotty and me. It’ll be fun, I promise. And???” He fixed Jim with that piercing surgeon’s gaze of his. “It’ll be good for you.”

Kirk sighed and started to count to ten. He’d been doing a lot of that these days: his temper seemed to be more frayed with every passing hour. He knew that Bones was half-threatening him with medical leave. The good doctor had already made it clear a couple of days ago that he didn’t like what he’d been seeing in his captain. “You’d better start getting some rest and unwinding a little,” he’d scolded. “You’ve been acting as cranky as a wet yanguar with a rash, and it’s starting to affect the crew.”

“Surely you can scare up some real patients to attend to—stop pestering me,” Kirk had told him. “I’m fine.”

Bones hadn’t backed down, of course. He just said, very quietly, “He’s been dead for nearly a month, Jim—and there was nothing you could have done. It’s time to let it go.”

Jim swallowed as he recalled how quickly the conversation had deteriorated into a shouting match. He regretted yelling at his CMO, especially since he knew that Bones had only been trying to be a good doctor and a good friend. But damn it, Bones didn’t understand all of it. He didn’t understand how much the loss of Sam still hurt, and he didn’t understand the rest of it either, the part that hurt worst of all, the part that he couldn’t really bring himself to think about yet.

The part about Spock.

Kirk forced that thought from his mind and brought himself back to the present. Bones was still smiling at him hopefully, waiting for an answer. Surreptitiously, Jim glanced around the bridge. Everyone was terribly busy … suspiciously busy. He knew that every last one of them was hoping that he would agree to go. The corners of his mouth twitched in a sour smile. He couldn’t blame them. He hadn’t exactly been a joy to be around lately. And Bones was right: his black mood did affect the crew. Even the usually sunny Uhura looked uncharacteristically subdued.

Jim sighed. “Fine. You win. I’ll go. But I repeat - “

McCoy’s grin widened. “I know, I know. You hate carnivals. But you’re gonna love this one. I just know it.”

***

“Deep fried weedlesnix, just the way you like ‘em—two tickets. Ice cold bracksludge in ten delicious flavors—one ticket. Get it while you can.” Something that looked like a bright yellow water balloon with tentacles wheezed into the milling crowd, all the while waving about various paper cups and steaming plates. Jim fought the urge to gag: the weedlesnix was pungent, to say the least. He trailed along behind McCoy and Scotty, already wishing he were anywhere but on this midway.

“Dunk the Klingon—five tries for three tickets!”

“Guess your weight and native planet—two tickets!”

“Everybody’s a winner at the phaser gallery, folks! Hit the target, win a prize. Hit it three times, win a big prize.”

Bones cast a sidelong glance at Scotty. “Whattaya think?”

Scotty beamed. “Aye. As good a place to start as any!”

Kirk was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Captain, it’s a professional challenge. Every last one o’ these games has some sorta trick to it. McCoy sweet-talks whoever’s runnin’ the scam and tries to distract ‘em while I figure out what the trick is and how tae get around it. Then we clean up. Last carnival we went to, we came away wi’ two big sacks o’ prizes. This time, we aim to do better yet. We’re a great team, sir, McCoy an’ I.”

“I’ll just bet you are,” Kirk said. “But from what I’ve seen so far, the best you can hope to get is a variety of stuffed animals.”

“Aye, but what you don’t understand is that the lasses go crazy for ‘em. We’ll be the most popular lads on the ship once we get back and start dolin’ ‘em out.”

“Oh, well, then. That makes a lot more sense.” Kirk shook his head and stood back to watch the action.

For the next hour, Scotty and McCoy cut a swath through every game booth within sight. Kirk had to admit that McCoy had an almost scary ability to establish a rapport with just about any carnie of any species. He would sidle up to the intended target and say something like, “I hope I’m not disturbin’ you—I know you’re tryin’ to work and all—but I just had to tell you I don’t remember when I’ve seen a more attractive (ring, hairstyle, triple snout, red lump) —” and the next thing Kirk knew, the carnie and the doctor would be chatting away like old friends. It was doubly weird that Bones upped his Georgian accent about tenfold?and that it seemed to work no matter what planet his intended target was from. Meanwhile, Scotty had relatively free reign to make any adjustments necessary to the game. And adjust he did. He fixed the phasers in the first booth so that they would shoot straight instead of to the right, and walked away with a credit bank shaped like a Romulan Bird of Prey and a medium-sized stuffed animal that resembled a squid with patent leather boots. He de-activated a force field at the ring toss booth and collected six packets of temporary Scorlian tattoos, a music box that played “The Lights of Andoria” and two necklaces with pulsating yellow crystals. At every booth, in short, McCoy charmed and Scotty tampered and the pile of prizes grew. Finally they couldn’t carry any more and Scotty was forced to have the heap beamed up to the ship.

As the last sparkle faded, he turned to McCoy. “A fine day’s work, wouldn’t you say?”

“Absolutely. And I’ll bet you’re thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’.”

Scotty grinned. “That I am, Doctor. That I am.”

Simultaneously they crowed, “Beer tent!”

Kirk rolled his eyes. He had known from the start it would come to this. And he had to admit, under normal circumstances he would have elbowed his way into the beer tent along with his friends and tossed back a few or a lot, told stories, laughed and had a great time in general. But not today. For one thing, he didn’t think he remembered how to laugh; it had been so long since he’d done it. For another thing, he knew that if he drank when he was in such a foul mood, things would get ugly fast.

He forced a smile. “You know, this carnival is a lot more interesting than I thought. I’d just as soon take a look around for a while. I’ve heard some of the sideshows are not to be missed.”

Scotty tried to cover his disappointment. “Aye, sir. We can walk around a little first and then??”

Kirk shook his head. “No, you and Bones go ahead and grab a beer. In fact, have one for me. I’ll just wander around a little. I’ll, uh, find you later. We’ve all got our communicators, so it’s not like we’ll get lost.”

Bones frowned and Kirk felt his shoulders tense. Scary, how he was always ready to fight these days—it wasn’t like him, and he knew it. Keep your temper, he told himself. But fortunately, Bones must have decided not to give him a hard time. “OK, if that’s what you want. You know where we’ll be. Call us if you find anything fascinating.”

Jim’s smile was tight. Damn Bones for using that word. “Sure. I’ll check in with you two later on. Have a good time.” He turned on his heel and walked away, trying to hide his haste.

Behind him, McCoy and Scotty exchanged worried glances. “The Captain’s nae himself these days, is he?” asked Scotty.

McCoy chewed his bottom lip. “No, he’s not. And I wish to hell I could get to the bottom of what’s wrong. I think it’s more than Sam’s death, but he won’t tell me anything. I tried to get Spock to talk to him, but that idea went over like a fart in a Ceculian monastery. It was, ‘The Captain’s personal life is his own business, blah, blah, blah.’ I gotta admit, that damn Vulcan may have his shortcomings, but he can tell you to fuck off more elegantly than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Scotty snorted. “Aye, I’ve noticed. But we both know there’s nothing he wouldna do for the captain. He must have had good reason for thinking that talkin’ to him wasna’ the answer.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It seems we’re all just gonna have to hope that Jim gets over this on his own, or that he’ll be smart enough to let someone help him if it gets to be too much.”

Shaking their heads, the two friends walked off to find the beer tent.

***

Jim wandered aimlessly, weaving his way through the booths, the rides, and the crowds. He hated carnivals. He hated carnivals. He hated carnivals. They were loud, they were dirty, they were stinky, and they were weird. Carnivals, he mused, were like really bad alternative universes, only with more lights and less purpose. He veered around a steaming pile of neon orange shit, skirted the “Incredible Quadruple Jointed Meelof” wagon, parried an attempt by a vendor to force him to purchase a heaping plate of breaded Antarian jaguar entrails, and tried to head for more barren ground. This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, he thought. All I need is a place to think and the time to do it. Instead, I head straight for chaos, as if my own mind didn’t provide enough of that these days. Jim kept walking, all the while fighting a feeling of vertigo that was just north of throwing up.

“See the being of four different sexes!” screamed a vaguely humanoid voice to his left. “Shim’s got it all: a clit, a penis, a stamen, and a pistil! All totally unclothed and ready for action. Watch as Shim photosynthesizes and fucks at the same time. Just two tickets. Touch shim’s stamen—one ticket extra!”

Jim shuddered and kept moving. _I should beam the hell out of here_ , he thought to himself, but for some reason he didn’t reach for his communicator. He just kept walking on as if he had some destination in mind. Always purposeful, he mocked himself. Captain James T. Kirk, in charge of everything but your own life.

He trudged on for a long time, lost in his own thoughts, until he finally became aware that he seemed to have left the worst of the bedlam behind. Stopping for a moment to look around, he noted that he’d made his way to the backside of the living area of the carnies. In the distance, the whining and beeping of the rides and the games ground on, but no one shouted at him to buy or to play. Surrounded only by dirt and tents and relative lack of activity, Kirk felt relief wash over him. Maybe this hadn’t been such a bad idea. He was alone and he was anonymous. Maybe he could think, could take the time and the opportunity to sort out everything that had gone so wrong, to figure out a way to make it right or at least to make it bearable. Maybe he could stand to think about Sam, about what his brother had meant to him and about all he’d lost on Deneva just twenty short days ago.

Maybe he could even think about Spock.

No, he’d start with Sam.

He tramped on, mulling and obsessing, dodging litter and castoff food, stepping over tent ropes, weaving around a big pile of dirty laundry that someone had dumped beside a particularly decrepit carnival wagon.

“Tell your fortune for two credits.”

The voice was odd and far from pleasant. It reminded Jim, in fact, of a thick liquid going sluggishly down a half-clogged drain. He pulled up short, utterly baffled by its source. Quickly surveying his surroundings, he frowned when he confirmed what he already knew: there was absolutely no one else nearby. Hearing voices. Most definitely not a good sign. He shrugged and started to walk again.

“C’mon. What’ve you got to lose? Two credits is a pittance for a rich starship captain like you. And it’ll be a really, really interesting fortune and almost completely accurate—I guarantee it.”

This time Kirk saw a small movement on the ground and looked down to see that the mound of dirty laundry was now within centimeters of his right foot. Instinctively he moved back, only to see the pile scuttle toward him again.

“My credentials,” the liquid-drain-voice said. From somewhere inside the multicolored heap, what might have been a strip of filthy red chenille or might have been an arm shot upwards, a square of brightly lettered cardstock clutched within its soft grimy nubs.

Kirk took it gingerly, whereupon the chenille strip retracted with a snap, leaving no sign of its presence behind.

**NIVOQ**

**FORTUNETELLER EXTRAORDINAIRE**

**Advisor to the Despondent, the Confused, and the Merely Curious**

**“I couldn’t believe how very nearly accurate it was.”—Squiganamo, Chief Uplatter of Disbon VI**

**“A life-changing event.” —Her Most Majestic Excellency the Curator of All That is Deemed Worthy, Altair X**

**“Nivoq rocks.” Dave Smith, 261 Pinewood Drive, Centerville, Ohio, Earth**

Kirk studied the card briefly, wanting to hand it back to the pile but unwilling to deal with the chenille again.

“Only two credits,” the mound reminded him, “and you too can benefit from my marvelous fortunetelling abilities.”

“I don’t believe in fortunetelling,” Kirk informed the heap. As an afterthought he asked, “How did you know I’m a starship captain?”

“Who else would come to a carnival dressed in gold velour?” the pile of laundry pointed out. “As for believing, this is not a religion. I tell, and you listen. It is simple enough. No faith is required.”

“I…don’t think so,” Kirk murmured, and made a motion to exit the area.

The mound scrambled after him. “All right, all right,” it cajoled, its abrasive voice somehow managing to acquire a wheedling tone. “One credit only, I’ll charge you. I’ve got mouths to feed, you know. It’s very hard, it truly is, trying to make a living this way. But I’m good—you’ll see. You won’t regret it. One credit. Just one credit.”

In spite of himself, Kirk began to feel a surge of pity for the being. He’d never heard a heap of laundry beg before, but there was something about the life form’s rumpled and neglected appearance and its desperate pleading that gave him pause. What the hell, he thought. Aloud he told Nivoq, “Oh, all right. I’ll give you two credits. Just go ahead and give me my fortune and get it over with.”

Nivoq made a sound like a hundred tiny bells trembling in the wind; somehow Kirk was certain that the noise designated joy and relief. “Ah,” it breathed, its voice suddenly melodious, “you will not regret this. A man’s fortune is a priceless and sacred thing, a gift that is overshadowed by nothing in this universe. And when told by a true master such as me, it is??”

“OK,” Kirk said, dredging up the last of his patience. “I get the drift. But I’ve got no intention of sticking around here all day. So if you’re going to tell me my fortune, do it within the next five seconds or I’m out of here.”

“Of course, of course,” the pile assured him. “But first there is the small matter of the disclaimer. A formality only, you understand, but still??”

“A dis??” Jim began. A chenille band, thicker this time and colored bright green, lurched out of the midsection of the pile, snatched the original cardstock from his hand, and replaced it with another. Frowning, he peered at it.

“Thank you for choosing Nivoq for your fortunetelling needs,” the card read. “The fortunee (hereafter referred to as the ‘customer’ agrees, by contracting with the provider (hereafter referred to as ‘Nivoq’) that the fortune stated may or may not be 100% accurate. Even the most deeply entrenched fortunes are subject to change brought about by extreme measures on the part of the customer, interfering relatives, and heat and humidity. The customer also understands that any fortune provided by Nivoq will be rendered in the form of a stanza of poetry, said stanza to consist of four lines of iambic verse, with the rhyme scheme ABAB. Additional stanzas may be purchased at the customer’s request and Nivoq’s assent, at the rate of three credits per stanza, to a maximum of fifteen stanzas. (WARNING: Nothing rhymes with ‘orange.’ Please do not ask Nivoq to attempt this.)”

Kirk gaped at Nivoq in disbelief. “You rhyme your fortunes?”

The entire surface of the pile rippled and undulated, a preening motion that projected a state of extreme self-satisfaction. “Certainly not,” it told him. “That would make no sense at all. I rhyme your fortune.” Nivoq heaved about until something that might have been a sleeve cuff or might have been a half-closed eye pointed toward the human. “Did I mention that I do require payment in advance?”

“Of course you do,” Kirk said. “Fine. Here are the two credits. Now would you do me a favor and get on with it? I can’t hang around here all day, much as I truly would love to.”

What appeared to be a heavily stained stretchy legging emerged from what might have been Nivoq’s abdomen, formed an opposable thumb, and plucked the credits from Kirk’s hand. “Thank you soo much,” Nivoq intoned, ensconcing the credits somewhere deep within its folds. “And I do appreciate your need for haste. Therefore, without further ado??”

Nivoq bunched up more tightly and began to hum and then to chime. Nothing more happened for a few minutes, and then the heap began to tremble. “Ahhh, sad, sad, sad?” it moaned, rocking back and forth in distress. “Such a pity. I had hoped to offer something bright, something wondrous?but, no, it’s not to be. Oh, sadness? misery. Such a terrible waste??”

“What is it?” Kirk asked, nonplussed by the fortuneteller’s mournful tone.

Nivoq chimed more loudly, twisted counterclockwise, and intoned in a voice so desolate that it made the hair on the back of the captain’s neck stand up:

“One brother lost through fear Another lost through fate. The saddest words to hear? Too late. Too late. Too late.”

Kirk felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. He couldn’t manage to say anything for a long moment; finally he backed slowly away from Nivoq and drew in a long, somewhat unsteady breath. “You are full of shit,” he told the fortuneteller fiercely. With that, he turned and hurried away without a backward glance.

Nivoq watched the captain’s retreat wordlessly and then sighed. Fluffing itself up a little and attempting to rearrange its various bunches and folds into some semblance of order, it mused to itself, “It never fails. They say they don’t believe in fortunetelling, but just try to give them a bad one, and there’s kiltranx to pay.” It shrugged. “Well, what can you do? The hacks all turn out predictions for tall, dark and handsome, and now that’s all the customer expects. There’s just no room anymore for true artists like me.”

***

Once safely back on the ship, Jim sequestered himself in his quarters with the privacy lock engaged and the lights turned down. Nivoq’s mournful stanza kept echoing in his brain, over and over again.

_A brother lost through fate._

He shut his eyes for a moment; Sam’s beloved face flashed before him and he felt the old familiar twist of pain. But even as it coursed through him, he knew that it was Sam’s loss that was fated: Jim could wish a thousand times over that he had known earlier what was occurring on Deneva, but that would change nothing. Wishes and regrets would not help the citizens who had suffered so horrendously, and it would not bring Sam back. The only thing he could do from this moment on was to try to accept, to reach the point again where he could be grateful for the time he’d had with Sam. And there was some comfort, at least, in knowing that he’d brought about the destruction of the creature that had caused everyone on Deneva such agony.

_A brother lost through fear._

Jim sat at his desk in the near darkness and stared into nothingness. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to recall that time in his quarters, the time that he could not bring himself to think about, and yet could not stop thinking about. He had been alone in the darkness, just like now. And he had deliberately done two things that he knew were foolish.

He had poured himself a tall glass of scotch.

And he had placed Sam’s holo before him on the desk.

He had no idea how long he had sat there feeling the fiery trail of alcohol sear his throat and unshed tears sear his eyes, staring at that holo. That particular image of his brother had always been his favorite. It showed Sam, a take-no-prisoners grin on his face, perched on his favorite mare Hally, his face tilted up to the blue Iowa sky. Everything about the image radiated youth, exuberance - life. “Dead,” Kirk had whispered over and over again to himself, trying without success to reconcile what he saw in the holo with what he had seen on Deneva. “Dead. Dead. Dead.” He was so miserable and so numb by the time the door chime rang that he had said “Come” without thinking, even though company was the last thing he wanted.

It had been Spock. “Captain, I have readied the report on the Reahvin project for your approval. My hypothesis was correct to the extent that - ” Spock stopped as he neared Jim and saw Sam’s hologram and the half-finished drink on the desk.

Jim bit his lip as he recalled the way Spock had bent over him, compassion and concern apparent in his supposedly emotionless eyes. “Jim.”

That voice, those eyes … the unwavering steadiness of Spock—suddenly, Jim felt his grief unfurling from him like a black ribbon. Spock’s face was so close; unthinkingly Jim had reached up and touched his first officer’s angular cheek.

It was of course a terrible thing to do to a touch telepath, to reach out like that when one was in such pain. And to do it to Spock, who masked his emotions so scrupulously?well, that was the worst. Spock should have stepped away or at least flinched, but he had not. Instead, he had done something extraordinary. He had pulled his captain to his feet. Then he had wrapped his long, slender arms around his friend and held him close for a long time.

God, it had felt good! In fact, it was the first thing that had felt good to Jim in two weeks. The warmth of Spock’s body, the reassuring strength of his embrace, the almost tangible waves of caring and?yes?of love that he had felt washing over him from the Vulcan—how had Spock known how badly Jim needed to feel these things, how lonely, how lost Jim had been that night?

Jim leaned his head in his hands. Of course Spock had known. Of course. He always knew what Jim needed, always did his best to provide it. And how had he been repaid? Jim shuddered, but willed himself to remember the rest of it.

No more avoidance, he told himself. Not tonight.

The embrace had gone on for an eternal moment, both of them unmoving but pressed as closely to each other as possible. Kirk’s head was burrowed into the hollow of Spock’s shoulder; he remembered the clean, familiar scent of his first officer, how much he had wanted to drink it in, to absorb into his own tormented self the steadfast, calm essence of the Vulcan. Slowly, he had become aware of Spock’s hands rhythmically stroking his back, spreading soothing little circles of heat across his too-taut muscles. It should have relaxed Jim—god knows it had felt fantastic. But the touch had the opposite effect: Jim had felt a hot surge of sexual energy rush through him, felt his cock grow instantly hard. Horrified at his own response, he had pulled back and looked up at his first officer; suddenly terrified that Spock had sensed his reaction.

But if he had, Spock seemingly was not disturbed by it. He simply took Jim’s face in those warm, beautiful hands of his, leaned down, and pressed his lips against Jim’s forehead.

Jim had been kissed many times in his life, in numerous ways, in countless circumstances. But that simple, quick caress against his forehead was so filled with utter worship that it took his breath away. He remembered how he had gaped up at the Vulcan, unable to think or talk. It was unreal, dreamlike—yet the connection between them was more sharply etched, more real, than any tangible object in the room.

Jim became dimly aware that his hands hurt; he looked down in his lap and saw that his fingers were curled into tight, hard fists. He let out a long breath and flexed his hands, finally laying them on the desk in front of him.

The rest of it, he prompted himself. Remember the rest of it.

The rest of it consisted of a second kiss, the one that Spock bestowed upon Jim’s mouth mere seconds after the chaste caress on the forehead.

Jim had been gawking up at his first officer in a scotch-and-surprise-induced daze, lips parted in what might have been construed as an invitation. And Spock had bent down again and kissed Jim deeply on those parted lips. It still made Jim shiver to remember all that kiss had been, the increasingly urgent pressure of Spock’s lips, his tongue, his taste, his heat, filling Jim’s mouth with flame.

The first kiss was pure devotion.

The second kiss was raw desire.

Spock felt both for him and somehow had found the courage to lay it all out before his captain on that awful night.

And in return, I betrayed him.

Jim swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth as he remembered the dizzying confusion and the fear that had swept over him once that second kiss ended. He had pushed Spock away, unable to bear the flood of conflicting emotions that threatened to drown him. He remembered being appalled that his own body could take him so completely by surprise. He remembered feeling a sickening panic that all the rules were changed, just now when he needed to cling to Spock’s dependability and steadfastness the most. And he remembered the look of horrified anguish on his first officer’s face after Jim had shoved him away.

“I’m sorry,” Spock had whispered in a ragged voice, and had turned on his heel and fled Jim’s quarters before a word of explanation could be uttered.

And if there had been time for an explanation, what would you have told him? Jim asked himself, shutting his eyes when he realized that he still did not fully have the answer, even after two weeks’ time.

Too late. Too late. Too late.

Nivoq’s morose words rang out in his head, followed by ones that chilled Kirk even more: He is going to leave you.

Jim got up and lightly touched the wall between his quarters and Spock’s. He leaned his head against its coolness, knowing somehow that his first officer was on the other side.

Spock would leave him.

As soon as the Enterprise broke orbit from this god-awful, carnival-infested planet, they were heading to Starbase 4. That’s where it would happen. Spock would wait until then to request a transfer or perhaps to resign. It was the logical thing to do: wait until they reached a destination where Spock could just quietly, quickly disappear from Jim’s sight???and from his life. Jim closed his eyes for a moment, swallowed against the growing tightness in his throat. Can you live without him? the ruthless voice within him queried. Can he live without you?

Ironic, he thought, that at one point in his life, the loss of Sam would have been the worst tragedy he could imagine; a few years later, the loss of the Enterprise was what he had come to fear even more. At what moment, he wondered, did a quiet, unobtrusive Vulcan become the most essential element in his life, more important than his flesh and blood and his ship? If he leaves me? he whispered, but found himself to be unable to go on with the thought. It was too wrong, too impossible, to contemplate life without Spock by his side.

“It can’t be too late.” He said the words aloud, to the empty room, as he brought his closed fist up and softly hit the wall. Then he turned and went to the intercom.

“Mr. Spock.”

The reply was prompt, though the tone was aloof. “Spock here, Captain.”

“Spock, could you come to my quarters, please? I-I need your assistance with something.”

This time there was the slightest of delays. Then: “Yes, sir. I shall come momentarily.”

As promised, the door soon swished open and Spock entered, looking dignified and stiff and woefully remote. Jim fought down a surge of apprehension. This was not going to be easy. It might not even be possible.

“You wished my assistance, sir?”

“Yes. I did.” A little silence fell, with Jim searching for words and Spock waiting, stone-like, near the door. Finally, Jim stepped closer to the Vulcan, trying not to wince as he saw how Spock almost imperceptibly withdrew into himself. “I need your help with a?a logic problem.”

“A logic problem?”

Jim looked fully into Spock’s face. “Yes,” he said. “I need to know how one asks forgiveness for the unforgivable.”

Spock flinched as if Jim had struck him and turned toward the door. “Surely you know,” he said, “that if I had the answer to that, I would already have asked.” He moved closer to the door. It opened.

“Don’t!” Jim nearly shouted. Then, as Spock hesitated, “Don’t leave. Please.” He could hear the desperation in his own voice but he didn’t care. He was damned if he was going to let Spock walk out this time. “I’m asking for myself. I’m asking you to forgive me.”

Spock stood half in, half out of the door, looking very much like a colt ready to shy. Jim spread his hands, palms up, in unspoken entreaty. Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Don’t leave me. There was a long, tense moment. Then Spock moved back into the room; the door swished shut. He said exactly what Jim knew he would.

“There is nothing to forgive.” But the Vulcan’s voice betrayed him: it was so utterly desolate that it made Kirk shudder to hear it.

“There is everything to forgive. I pushed you away. I hurt you. I??” Jim reached out to the Vulcan.

“No.” The voice was firm, a denial of the proffered touch more than of what Kirk had said.

Jim froze and then let his hand fall to his side. “All right,” he said. “Fair enough. But if you won’t let me touch you, and you won’t let me apologize?will you at least let me try to explain?”

Spock shook his head. “It is too late: any explanation would be superfluous. I understand why you did what you did, and you were completely in the right. Indeed, I consider myself fortunate that—”

“Don’t tell me it’s too late!” Kirk snapped out, caught totally by surprise at the anger those words engendered in him. “Don’t you dare say that! As long as we’re both alive, it’s not too late.” He glared at the Vulcan and then took a long, calming breath. “I want,” he said deliberately, “to show you something. Will you just?let me do that much? And then if you still want to walk out of here, I promise I won’t try to stop you. Just allow me this much—please.”

Spock finally gave a brief nod.

Jim let out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding. “Good.” He started to walk over to his bookcase. “Come over here with me. This is what I want you to see.”

Spock hesitated but finally followed him.

“Look at these.”

Impassively, Spock surveyed the shelf that Kirk was pointing out to him. “Holos,” he said and turned to look at Kirk, eyebrow raised in inquiry.

“Holos,” Kirk confirmed, picking up the one of Sam that he had been grieving over just two weeks ago. Carefully replacing it exactly where it had been, he continued, “These on the left are all of my family.” He pointed out a small portrait of an attractive human woman of about thirty years of age. “My mother, taken when Sam and I were young,” he told Spock, who regarded it with curiosity.

“There is a resemblance,” Spock told him.

“Yeah, that’s what everyone says. Sam looked a little more like my father. That’s my dad as a young man, before he and my mother were married. And of course you recognize this one of Peter. And those in the back are of my cousins.”

“Why are you showing me these?” Spock asked, but Jim continued as if he had not spoken.

“The ones in the middle of the shelf are all of friends.” Jim smiled in spite of himself as he indicated a larger holo of a group of slightly inebriated-appearing youths. “My academy pals,” he explained to Spock. “We don’t get to see each other very often anymore, which is probably a good thing. The last time the whole group was together, we almost got arrested—wouldn’t have looked good on my record, I suppose.”

Spock scanned the holo. He could identify Kirk in the front row of the boisterous looking men and women, appearing very much like the ringleader Spock suspected that he was. The young human was grinning lopsidedly and had a decidedly devilish air.

“These are more recent,” Jim said, interrupting the Vulcan’s thoughts.

Spock regarded the holos that Jim was indicating. There was one of Uhura, Sulu and Chekov standing arm in arm. All three of them were dressed in civilian clothing; Uhura was particularly resplendent in a flowing caftan of deep blues and greens. Shore leave, Spock surmised, regarding the trio’s attitude of easy friendship with something that felt suspiciously like envy. In another, McCoy toasted the unseen taker of the holo with a brightly colored drink; it was apparent from the background that the shot had been taken at Jim’s apartment in San Francisco. There were several others of people whom Spock did not recognize, some smiling and rather bohemian-looking, others dressed in severe Starfleet uniforms, solemn and authoritative in demeanor. It was hard not to notice what a broad range of friends Kirk had, doubtless an offshoot of the captain’s remarkable ability to adapt to any situation.

Jim reached out and picked up one of the holos that had been placed slightly to the right of the others. “Do you remember when this was taken?” he asked the Vulcan.

Spock examined it. It was of himself. He was clad in the customary blue science tunic, arms clasped behind his back, his head turned to the right. “It was taken one point two years ago on Canisium Beta, after our successful negotiations with the head of the Zershin Clan,” Spock replied.

“Yes,” Kirk agreed, turning the holo in his hand. “As I recall, I took it myself. And I love it because it’s so damn characteristic of you: so calm and steady, unaffected by all the chaos of those turbulent negotiations. I can almost hear your voice saying something serene and totally rational, whenever I look at it.” He glanced at Spock. “And I look at it often, whenever I need to get perspective on a particularly difficult problem.”

Unaccountably embarrassed by this statement, Spock looked away, to the remaining group of holos that were clustered neatly on the right hand side of the shelf.

“Those are the ones I wanted to show you,” Jim said quietly. “They’re all of lovers. No, let me restate that: former lovers.”

Spock studied the holos, in spite of a most shameful wave of jealousy that coursed through his heart as he did so. There were several breathtakingly beautiful women of various humanoid species lined up on the shelf, gazing sultrily out into the room. Many of them had long, lovely tresses flung over perfect shoulders and somehow managed to look welcoming and dangerous at the same time. There was a human woman of about fifty, with closely cropped silver hair and black eyes that snapped with humor, her mouth upturned in a smile of pure impishness. There was a young Andorian female, slender and vulnerable, her head tilted, a lock of pure white hair falling over one eye rakishly.

And there were men.

Spock examined their holos intently, hoping to discover some clues within those nameless faces, clues that would tell him what qualities these people possessed that had made Kirk desire their touch when his own had been so unwelcome.

There was a young blonde man sitting in a boat by a lake, tanned arms resting on his knees, lively eyes startlingly green in his handsome bronzed face. There was a swarthy, exotic Achirdian dressed in Prussian blue velvet, posed among bizarre lush plants and brilliant mosaics, his countenance exuding the self-possessed arrogance of the powerful and wealthy. There was someone whom Spock guessed might have been an Iowa farm boy, lanky strong body leaned against a rail fence, arms crossed, with a sweet, straightforward grin on his painfully youthful face.

Tentatively Spock picked up the holo of the one who drew his interest the most. It was a portrait of a dark, ardent-looking man with unruly hair and jet black eyes. The man was not smiling as all the others were: his full, sensuous lips were parted as if he had been caught in the middle of saying something momentous and impassioned.

“That’s Mark,” Kirk said. “From the academy.”

Spock replaced the holo and swallowed a dark, sick feeling that threatened to take away both his voice and his equilibrium. He had known, of course, that Kirk had had many lovers. That was a fact, and it was illogical either to deny or to resent a fact. Still, every molecule of his being was at that moment screaming that Kirk was his, that all of these people, these anonymous, self-satisfied, excruciatingly beautiful men and women had encroached on what was his by right and by fate. “Why are you showing these to me?” he asked again.

“Do you think there are a lot of them?”

Spock shut his eyes against the pain of the truth. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Spock. Please look at me.”

Reluctantly Spock opened his eyes and turned to look at his captain, all too aware that his treacherous human half was betraying him once again, offering up to Kirk’s scrutiny all of the disgraceful emotions that teemed within him.

“These are just the ones who actually stuck around long enough to have their holos taken,” Kirk told him. “Not one of these people is in my life now.”

“I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. If I’d really cared about them in the first place, I wouldn’t have fucked them.”

The crudeness of the statement and the barely controlled anger in the human’s voice took Spock by surprise. He stammered, “I do not understand.”

Kirk did not answer him directly. Instead he reached out and touched the holo of Mark. “He and I,” he told the Vulcan, “were the exception: we were friends first. He was one of the smartest cadets at the academy, and we used to spend hours together, debating everything from Pascal’s theory of probability to which restaurant served the best pizza. We could talk about absolutely everything. I admired his intellect so much: it seemed as if he could effortlessly grasp any concept and then work it around in that incredible mind of his until he’d made the idea uniquely his own. He always went full tilt at everything. I thought he was the most courageous person I’d ever met.”

“What happened?”

Kirk shrugged. “The short version? We ended up sleeping together. Within two months, we crashed and burned. By the time it was all over, we weren’t even speaking to each other.”

“I do not —”

“Why do you think I pushed you away that night?” Kirk interrupted.

“Because you do not desire me,” Spock replied.

Kirk shook his head. “You’re hardly ever wrong, but when you are, you really go all out,” he murmured. “How is it that you don’t see it—that you don’t know—when you know me better than anyone alive?”

“That I don’t know …?”

“That I have absolutely no idea how to love anybody,” Kirk said. “I know how to make love, and how to mouth the right words. But as far as actually doing it day by day, making it right, making it last??” He shook his head. “Nearly all of these people were throwaway people,” he told Spock. “I threw them away, or they threw me away, and not a tear was shed from start to finish. It was quick and easy and thoroughly uncomplicated. And it’s all I know how to do.” He peered at Spock. “Is that what you want—the kind of relationship that you envision?”

“No,” Spock replied.

“No. I knew that—from that first kiss on the forehead,” Kirk told him. “And by the way, that’s the one that really scared the shit out of me. I know what you do when someone kisses you on the mouth. You take off their clothes and get them into bed and you either fuck the daylights out of them or get them to fuck you. And then the next morning, you think up some polite excuse, so you can start over again with someone else. But when someone kisses you on the forehead like that??”

“I did not intend to distress you.”

“Of course you didn’t. And I didn’t intend to hurt you.” Kirk looked at Spock wistfully. “The long and the short of it is this: I’m afraid. I’ve just lost Sam, my brother—and I’ve got to admit, there were a few days there when I wasn’t sure I could survive that pain. But if I were to lose you?.” He shut his eyes. “I can’t even begin to contemplate that. You’re too much?my everything.”

Spock frowned, pondering what Kirk had said. Finally, he clasped his hands behind his back and walked a few feet away from his captain. Without turning around, he said slowly, “A man walks in the desert day after day, his thirst growing with every passing hour. Just as he despairs of finding an end to his torment, he comes to a cliff, looks down, and sees a pool of clear, fresh water.”

Kirk waited, not taking his eyes from the Vulcan until Spock continued.

“The cliff is high and steep; the man cannot climb down. He stares upon the water longingly, knowing that there is only one way he can reach it: he must leap from the cliff.”

Kirk hesitated, and then moved over to where Spock stood and looked up at him inquiringly.

“There could be rocks,” Spock went on. “Or the water could be too deep and swallow him up entirely. He does not know what will befall him if he jumps from the precipice—and like you, he is afraid.”

“So what does he do?”

Spock turned to Kirk at last with a tiny, half apologetic smile. “His thirst is very great. He jumps.”

Spock’s eyes were so very dark and soft in the dimly lit room, and in them Kirk could read such vulnerability that it made his heart ache. For the second time in two weeks, he reached up and touched the Vulcan’s face, resting his hand against the man’s sculpted cheek. “And what happens to him?” he asked.

Spock placed his own hand over Kirk’s and leaned just a little into the human’s touch. “I do not know,” he confessed. “I am still in midair.”

“Spock.”

“It was perhaps a desperate and even an illogical act, and yet I cannot seem to bring myself to regret it.”

With a little cry, Kirk threw his arms around Spock and pulled him close. The Vulcan fell into the embrace willingly, even eagerly, enfolding his arms around Kirk and resting his cheek against the human’s soft brown hair, eyes shut as if he wished to close away everything else in the universe but the two of them.

They stood that way for a long time, not speaking and not moving. With Spock’s lean body pressed so tightly against him, Kirk felt the same jolt of sexual desire he had experienced before, and while it still had the power to shake him, this time he did not allow it to frighten him into pushing Spock away. He concentrated instead on experiencing it fully, on accepting it as just another facet of the connectedness he had always shared with the Vulcan. Since I first saw him, he admitted to himself. Since I first knew he existed.

When he did try to speak, he found that his voice had abandoned him. He cleared his throat and tried again. “OK,” he said. OK, so we’re going to do this, then. We’ll?we’ll take the next step or we’ll jump from the cliff together, or whatever you want to call it. But?.” He looked up into the Vulcan’s face and implored, “There isn’t any law that says we’ve got to go at warp speed, is there? We can take this slowly.” He leaned his forehead against Spock’s shoulder. “We can be careful with each other.”

Kirk felt the Vulcan’s lips brush against his hair, an act of tenderness that left him feeling both humble and breathless.

“Yes,” Spock said and pulled Kirk even closer.

“Yes,” Kirk agreed, his pulse starting to race as he felt Spock grow hard against his abdomen. “We’ve got to do this right. You’re worth way too much to me—we’ve got to be careful.”

“Caution,” Spock informed him as he began slowly to caress the human’s back, “is nearly always logical.”

There was something very comforting about Spock’s more-than-human warmth. Kirk sighed and spread his fingertips across the soft material of Spock’s tunic in an effort to soak in more of it. “Mmm, you feel so good,” he murmured and slipped his hands under his first officer’s shirt.

Spock responded with a sharp intake of breath. “Jim.”

Kirk could feel Spock’s sinewy muscles tighten beneath his hands; he was almost certain that he detected a shiver of pleasure as well. It couldn’t hurt, he decided, to explore the silky, hot skin just a little bit. Smiling slightly, he trailed his fingers over Spock’s taut stomach and through his chest hair, until he found his way finally to one of Spock’s nipples. This time there was no doubt about the Vulcan’s response: the flesh hardened instantly beneath Kirk’s hand, and a tiny whimper escaped Spock’s lips.

“You wished to go slowly,” Spock reminded his captain when he got his breath back enough to speak.

Kirk was certain that he’d never felt anything quite as intriguing as Spock’s bare, hot skin beneath his hand and Spock’s hard, swollen cock jutting into his belly. “Yeah, slow is probably a good idea,” he assented, at the same time tugging Spock’s tunic upwards.

Spock took the hint by releasing Jim, albeit with some reluctance, and pulling the tunic up over his head. Allowing it to fall on the deck, he immediately reached for the human again.

“Wait. Let me look at you,” Kirk told him, holding him off and scanning the Vulcan’s torso with hungry eyes. Tracing Spock’s neck and shoulder slowly with his fingertips, he said at last, “Perfect. You’re perfect. Do you know how many times I’ve looked at you and tried not to wonder what it would be like to touch you like this?”

“No,” Spock whispered as Kirk leaned forward and brushed his collarbone and then his neck with a light kiss.

Spock began to tug at Kirk’s shirt; with a breathy little laugh, Jim pulled away again. “Let me,” he said and yanked the offending piece of clothing over his head, dropping it on top of the one Spock had already cast off.

“Ah,” Spock sighed, and pulled Kirk against him.

Jim moaned in pleasure at the sensation of so much bare Spock against so much of him, at the same time he became utterly, desperately convinced that it was not remotely enough. He reached down to fumble with Spock’s pants.

“Jim,” Spock whispered as Kirk wrenched away at the recalcitrant fastening.

“Mm?” Kirk replied, his lips against Spock’s neck and his hands busily pushing down the Vulcan’s pants and briefs.

“You were quite insistent that we proceed in a slow and careful manner… Oh!” Spock added as his cock sprang free to be immediately grasped within Kirk’s greedy hands.

In spite of his words, the Vulcan clutched at the front of the human’s uniform pants, searching single-mindedly for the most efficient way to undo them. Kirk donated one hand to the cause, reserving the other for the purpose of stroking Spock’s stiff, swollen organ. After a couple of failed attempts, their mutual effort finally resulted in Kirk’s pants, briefs, and finally his boots being added to the growing pile of clothing at their feet.

“Slow was a stupid idea,” Kirk informed his first officer, pulling the Vulcan’s head down to him so he could claim Spock’s mouth in a deep, lingering kiss. “Dumbest idea I ever had, in fact,” he concluded once he pulled away.

Spock took Kirk’s face in his hands and bestowed a series of quick, fervent kisses on the human’s lips while he simultaneously toed off his own boots and unceremoniously kicked them and his pants and underwear onto the heap. “Indeed,” he concurred, his hands roving downward over the human’s body until he found Jim’s firm, bare ass. With a little noise of satisfaction, he cupped the rounded flesh in his hands and pulled Kirk up against him.

“Oh god,” Kirk gasped as his rigid cock rubbed against Spock’s for the first time. He reached down and wrapped his hand around both of their swollen organs, intent on feeling as much of Spock’s heat and hardness as possible, and was rewarded by a low groan from the Vulcan. Strong hands clutched at his buttocks and spread his cheeks to allow an exploratory finger to slide slowly along his cleft, leaving Kirk a little dizzy and very much in need of more.

“I believe,” a deep voice said from several parsecs away, “that it might be efficacious to proceed toward the bed.”

Kirk smiled and stole yet another kiss. “A most logical suggestion,” he teased, but then frowned. “Damn. Wait a minute.”

“What is it?”

“Still got my socks on.” He bent over and peeled them off, adding them to the pile of clothing and footgear. “Take yours off, too, would you? I don’t know what there is about it, but I can’t stand it when —”

“Jim,” Spock reminded as he removed his own socks with effortless grace, “the bed.” He pushed Kirk toward it to emphasize the urgency of the situation.

Kirk reached it first and slid onto it, moving over to make room for Spock. For a moment his first officer stood and looked down on him, his dark eyes smoldering with a passion thoroughly unadulterated by logic or the teachings of Surak. Spock looked incredible, flushed and fully erect, lips parted, his hair just a bit mussed from Jim’s caresses. It was the hair that made Jim a little crazy; he realized he’d never seen it in any other state but carefully groomed, glossy perfection. Surveying him, Kirk had the devilish urge to see just how many more layers of Vulcan decorum could be stripped away. Accordingly, he gave Spock his most seductive smile. “Come here,” he whispered.

Within the next second, he found himself pinned beneath an extremely enthusiastic and highly aroused Vulcan, whose lips and hands and body all seemed to be conspiring to make Kirk disintegrate with pleasure and with need. The sensation of Spock’s lean nakedness sprawled on top of him was indescribable; when Spock began to move slowly against him, dragging his searing cock across Jim’s belly and against his rock hard penis, he was certain he would fly apart completely. He took Spock by the shoulders and pushed gently, rolling them both over until they were lying on their sides facing each other. Spock didn’t miss a beat; grasping the human firmly about the hips, he continued to rub against Kirk, his eyes shut in apparent rapture.

“Ah, T’hy’la,” he gasped through lips a little swollen with kisses and arousal, “you cannot know what you do to me.”

“Show me,” Kirk challenged as he met Spock’s thrusts with his own. “Show me all of it.”

For the first time, Spock hesitated. “Jim? I wish to. But …”

“But what? What’s the matter?”

“I must know: are you still afraid? Of any of this?”

The question took Jim by surprise. In an odd sort of way, he had the impression that his trepidation about becoming intimate with Spock was something that had been resolved months and not mere minutes ago. “No,” he answered. “I’m not. I guess this just feels too right. I…I have to trust it.” He caressed Spock’s cheek, frowning when he saw that the Vulcan still seemed uneasy. “Are you?”

“No,” Spock answered, but hesitated.

“Then what—”

Spock stopped him with a kiss. “I would like to be inside of you, this first time,” he said a little shyly, his lips still nearly touching Jim’s. “I have thirsted for you for so long. I - I wish - I need to make you mine.” Pulling away, he searched Kirk’s face. “But if you have any doubts -”

“Ohhh,” Kirk said, relieved beyond measure. “No. I mean, yes.” With a soft laugh, he added, “Let me just clarify that. No, I have no doubts. And yes—I want you inside of me. Very much.” He sat up and groped at the nightstand, unwilling to take his eyes off the Vulcan. “There’s some stuff here somewhere. Just a minute.” He rummaged a moment longer and finally said triumphantly, “Here it is.” He removed the cap and handed it to Spock.

Spock knelt on the bed and took the proffered lubricant. He dispensed some of it into his hand and, without taking his eyes from the human waiting impatiently beside him, began to palm himself with it until his cock was slick and shiny. Jim watched him with hungry eyes, utterly entranced. The mere sight of Spock preparing himself to enter him was nearly enough to make him come at that very moment; when the Vulcan began to coat two of his long, slender fingers as well, Jim quickly got on his knees and spread his legs. “Hurry,” he ordered, bracing himself against Spock for support while his own straining organ began to seep in anticipation, dangling a thin trail of precum onto the sheets beneath them. He burrowed his face into Spock’s warm neck and began to nip at the Vulcan’s sensitive skin encouragingly. “Hurry.”

“So impatient,” he heard Spock murmur, but the deep voice was rough with lust and his first officer’s breath was already ragged.

Jim felt something hot and slick press against his entrance; he opened his legs a little wider to accommodate the impending intrusion. Slowly Spock worked one finger into Jim’s tight anus.

Jim whimpered and clasped his arms tightly about Spock’s shoulders as his sphincter contracted around the assailing digit.

Spock froze instantly. “Am I hurting you?” he asked in alarm. “You are so very tight—we do not have to—”

“No,” Jim gasped. “You feel incredible. “Don’t stop—I want more.”

With some trepidation, Spock moved his finger cautiously within the human, relaxing somewhat when he eventually felt Jim’s opening begin to loosen.

“More,” Jim urged, reaching down to take Spock’s well-greased cock in his hand and stroking it firmly. This elicited a most un-Vulcan moan of pleasure; encouraged, Jim flicked his tongue out and unhurriedly licked his first officer’s elegant, pointed ear, ending with a nibble that might have been affection or might have been admonition. “More,” he demanded again.

Spock’s hands were shaking when he pushed a second finger into Jim, not for fear of causing damage or pain but because it was taking every atom of his control not to shove his captain down on the bed and ravish him then and there. He bit his lip and tried to concentrate solely on working his fingers within Kirk; he was determined not to take the human until he was adequately prepared.

Jim, however, had long since dispensed with any pretense of caution or of going slowly. The sensation of Spock’s hot fingers inside of him was driving him mad; he was desperate to have more of it, to be filled by it. “Now,” he whispered into the Vulcan’s ear. “Fuck me now.”

Kirk used the same tone that he would have used to issue any other order, and Spock obeyed with his usual alacrity. “Yes,” he answered, cutting off the “sir” that nearly automatically followed. He pushed gently against Kirk until the man fell backwards on the bed, and then spread Jim’s legs apart and lifted them up so that the human’s entrance was fully exposed. Allowing himself a small moment to study the vision before him, he privately concluded that he never would forget this sight: Jim, always so strong and in command, now flushed and panting beneath his hands, open and vulnerable, waiting to be possessed.

“Please,” Kirk murmured, as if reading the Vulcan’s mind.

“Yes,” Spock told him again, and slid his full hard length into the human.

Kirk made a muffled sound as his hands bit into Spock’s shoulders, and for a long, terrible moment Spock was certain that he had been too ruthless in his assault, that he had hurt Jim after all. But then the human tangled his hands in the Vulcan’s silky dark hair and smiled up at him, his eyes so full of love and passion that it took Spock’s breath away.

“You are magnificent,” Jim whispered. “Give me all of you—now.”

“T’hy’la,” Spock murmured and began to thrust slowly.

For long moments they rocked back and forth on the bed, Jim straining to take in more of the Vulcan’s long slippery cock even as he was convinced he could bear no more, the Vulcan gasping in ecstasy at the sensation of Jim’s taut tunnel clutching at his engorged sex every time he plunged into and pulled out of the human. Spock was certain that he could never get enough of this: the sight of Jim’s face transformed with passion, the feeling of Jim’s cool, moist passageway encasing him so tightly, the taste of Jim’s salty skin on his tongue.

He spread Kirk’s legs wider and drove into him mercilessly, grunting in satisfaction as he at last felt Jim’s cock, trapped between them, start to ripple and jerk. Beneath him, Jim arched and writhed and shuddered, lost in the throes of his impending orgasm. As Jim’s semen finally pulsed against his bare belly, Spock jammed himself deep into Jim’s ass and, relinquishing the last of his much-cherished Vulcan control, emptied himself into the human, panting and gasping as he came.

Spock had the foresight to roll to the side before he collapsed onto the bed, thus saving Jim from being mashed beneath his dead weight. For a long time after that, there was no movement and no sound from either of the two men.

Kirk used the time to formulate a vague theory that the ship might spontaneously have been obliterated: it certainly would explain the strange sensation he had of floating aimlessly in space. Finally he rallied just enough to press his lips against Spock’s shoulder and was rewarded by a somewhat sluggish caress against the side of his face.

“Mmpf,” he muttered in response and allowed himself to drift a little longer in his newfound, beautiful, gravity-less world. Finally he sighed and tilted his head to peer up at Spock. “Just out of curiosity, do you think we’re alive?”

Spock ran his fingertip lightly over Jim’s lips. “I can only speak for myself,” he said softly.

“And??”

Spock’s lips curved in a miniscule smile. “Never more than now.”

Jim reached up and ruffled Spock’s hair. “I’m not going to lose you,” he said, determination evident in his voice.

“You will not,” Spock assured him and made a movement as if to draw him close.

But Kirk grimaced. “Hold that thought for just a minute,” he told the Vulcan. “I’ve gotta uh, take care of something first.”

He got off the bed a little clumsily and staggered toward the bathroom, trying hard to regain command over muscles that seemed to have been transformed into porridge, and a thin one at that. Probably only temporary, he decided as the door shut behind him. And if not still worth it. He smiled to himself as he recalled the sensation of having Spock crammed within him and shivered at the knowledge that he wanted far, far more of it—and many times over. “You are in deep,” he whispered to himself, cognizant of Spock’s keen Vulcan ears outside the door. To his surprise, he felt no fear when he heard his own words. “James T. Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise,” he mocked himself. “In love with a Vulcan. For good.” Again he was half surprised at his own lack of panic: apparently, his heart, his brain, and his mouth had at last reached a unilateral agreement.

When he finally emerged, Spock was sitting up on the bed seemingly waiting to take his turn in the bathroom. Kirk stood aside as his first officer got up and navigated his way to the bathroom, obviously without the tribulation of porridge-metamorphosed muscles. Eyes narrowed, Jim surveyed Spock’s retreating slim buttocks with appreciation. Definitely the best ass on the ship, he decided, a conclusion he reached not for the first time. I wonder what it would be like to - But he quelled the thought for the moment. There would be time, he was sure, to explore every possibility: it didn’t all have to happen tonight.

Sliding onto the bed, he scanned the right hand group of his holos as he awaited Spock’s return. Mark’s fervent face stared at him as if accusing him of some sort of subversive and disloyal act; flanking him, all of the beautiful and anonymous lovers of years past smirked and shrugged and mocked. “You’ll never make it work,” they all said in a discordant, cynical chorus. “You’ll lose him yet.”

“You do realize, bitches and bastards” Jim replied ever so quietly and ever so calmly as he waited for Spock to return to him, “that tomorrow morning, bright and early, you’re all going to be sent out of the ship’s airlock so fast it’ll make your shallow little three-dimensional heads spin.”

None of them seemed to have any kind of a reply for that; even Mark looked a little chastened, Jim thought. He smiled in triumph. It was about damn time, he decided, that every last one of them had their comeuppance; they’d tormented him way too long. “Why the hell I ever gave you shelf space?” he muttered.

The bathroom door opened and Spock glided through, a picture of unselfconscious grace in spite of his nakedness. Surveying his captain with ill-concealed desire, he nonetheless stopped when he reached the pile of cast off garments on the floor. Frowning slightly, he bent over the disorganized heap.

“What’re you doing?” Jim asked as Spock reached for the top article of clothing.

“I am going to take care of our uniforms,” Spock replied.

“Don’t.”

Spock blinked in surprise. “Sir?”

“Just don’t. Leave them there.”

“But they are untidy.”

“I know. But they remind me of a friend.”

“A friend?”

“A friend who was very nearly accurate. And who did me a big favor today.” Seeing Spock’s look of baffled confusion, Jim sprawled on the bed and smiled his failsafe smile. “I’ll tell you all about it sometime. But in the meantime, if you’re looking for small chores to do -”

Spock sat down on the bed beside his captain and waited, eyebrow aloft, his dark eyes glittering with interest.

“I could come up with a few things to keep you occupied,” Jim concluded.

“Indeed?”

“Indeed.” Jim sat up and, with the heady feeling of going full speed into unknown territory, kissed his Vulcan on the lips.


End file.
